Obsession
by A-blackwinged-bird
Summary: Sam faces his fears though he'd rather not.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Obesession**  
**

**Author:** Black Wingedbird

**Muse**: Amy

**Beta:** Carikube

**Warnings**: owies and bad words

**Author's Notes**: I suppose this occurs sometime after Everbody Loves a Clown. Sammy torture ahead. Also, if I may, I'd like to invite everyone to KazCon this summer, a Superntaural fan gathering which I am helping to organize. Check out kazcon(dot)com for more info!

Standard Dis

* * *

Sam stood before the door to room number 105 and contemplated on how best to open it, without spilling 128 ounces of soda all over himself. 

A heavy, grease-soaked bag dangled from his left hand, each hand gripped a cold, wet cup, the Impala's keys hung from his lips, and his right thumb and index finger pinched the key card. Light filtered out from around the curtains and a flickering blue glow told him the TV was on. Where the hell was Dean?

Unable to pound on the door with his fists, he kicked at it, satisfied by the loud booming. "Dean!" he shouted, only partially aware of the late hour and thin walls. The car keys fell to the ground with a clank. "Let me in!"

Sam waited, his fingers frozen painfully around the cups of ice, his stomach rumbling at the smell of food he could not eat. From somewhere around his feet, a frog began chirping, and Sam grew pissed.

"Damnit," he growled, balancing the cups on the thin window sill. "You better be in the shower, and not laying on the bed, ignoring me. I went out and got the food, the least you could do is open the freakin' door."

Sam shoved the card in the lock and watched the red light change to green. He pulled open the door, caught it with his foot, shoved the card in his pocket, snatched the car keys from the ground and wrapped his hands around the two cups before they teetered over the edge. Then, bullying his way inside, he searched for Dean. "Yeah, hey, thanks for your help and all but it's okay, I think I can manage."

The TV flickered, the comforter rumpled in an oblong depression, but Dean was not there.

"Dean!" Sam called, letting the door fall shut behind him. He dropped the car keys on the dresser, followed promptly by the food and drinks. Wiping his cold, wet hands on his jeans, he listened for the shower. He had to move closer to hear over the TV, but there it was, the sound of running water splashing against a curtain.

Sam sighed and grabbed his drink and the bag of food, carrying it to his bed. There was no obligation to wait for his brother and he had no intention of doing so now. His stomach burned and the smell of burgers and fries was too tempting, making him drool as he sat cross-legged on the bed. Sam lifted one of the foil-wrapped burgers from the bag and set it on his knee, then dove in for the fries.

After setting the carton on his other knee, he rooted through the bag for all the spilt fries and shoved them in his mouth, then set the bag aside for Dean.

Finders Keepers.

Sam was three bites and half-way into his burger when the water shut off. He looked at the door, chewing, waiting. Listening.

Dean did not generally talk to himself or make an excess amount of noise, but the silence in the bathroom now bothered Sam in a way he didn't understand. He took another bite, though suddenly he wasn't hungry anymore. The silence was unnerving.

"Dean?" Sam swallowed thickly and stared, searching for flickering shadows under the bathroom door. There were none.

Sam set the food on the bed and rose to his feet, wiping his mouth with his hands then wiping his hands on his jeans. He moved quietly over the carpet, only the whisper of the denim between his legs rasping under the drone of the TV. His gun was packed away, decidedly not needed for the food run. There were no signs of an intruder- no broken locks, no strange foot prints, not even a misplaced smell.

He crept forward, willing Dean to make some sort of sound.

"Dean? You okay?" he called, reaching for the doorknob. Nothing. "Light a match, man, I'm coming in."

He twisted the knob and pushed, fists clenched as he filled the doorway.

Nothing moved. Steam wisped about under the light, twisting on the current of cool air. A pile of clothes- Dean's clothes- lay in a heap by the toilet. A familiar brown bag perched on the edge of the sink, surrounded by a razor and can of shaving cream, toothbrush and toothpaste from the night before.

A shadow shifted behind the shower curtain, and Sam locked onto it, tunneling his vision. His breath barely moved through his lungs as he approached.

He swallowed and reached for the shower curtain.

"Boo!" Dean, wearing a large red afro and his nose capped in a bright red ball, sprung from the shower, his hands up and covered in large white gloves.

Sam staggered back, his arms pin-wheeling as he crashed against the towel rack, the metal bars hitting him across the shoulder blades. His feet twisted and he slid down the wall, landing hard on his ass, still scrambling into the corner behind the door.

Dean laughed, slapping his thigh as his cheeks swelled. "Sam, Sam, calm down, dude. It's just me. Sam!"

"Damnit, Dean!" Sam shouted, bringing his flailing arms under control, his heart pounding against his ribs. "You are such a bastard!"

Dean pulled off the gloves and reached out, still laughing. "Come on, get up. You're such a girl- you should have seen your face!"

Sam knocked his hand away none too gently. He grimaced as he used the wall instead, rising slowly, the room tilting to the left until he sidestepped to keep his balance. "Get off me. Fuck, I hate you."

Dean backed up, giving Sam his space, his laughter slowly dying. "Lighten up! It was just a joke. You really gotta get over this pansy-assed fear of clowns, you know. I'm only trying to help."

Sam turned his back to Dean and made his way back to his bed, grabbing his drink just for something to do with his hands. "Don't. Stop trying to help."

Dean pulled off the wig and nose, tossing them in the corner. "You gotta face your fears head-on, Sammy. Look at me. Dad found out I was afraid of rats and what did he do?" he shivered, thought Sam doubted Dean was aware of it. "I may hate the little shits, but I'm not afraid of them anymore."

Dean may hold bravado about the situation now, but Sam remembered with crystal clarity the night Dean had been too shaken up to even eat dinner, and the way he twitched in his sleep that night, dreaming of the nibbling rats in the Patterson's basement. Yeah, facing your fears worked _real_ well.

"I can deal with it myself," Sam said, pumping his fists to loosen his muscles. "It's not a big deal, anyway."

"Yeah, not until we have to tangle with old Pennywise."

"That's fiction."

Dean grabbed the bag of food from the dresser. "One could say that about half the shit we hunt, Sam."

The point, no matter how twisted it was, had been taken. Sam stared at the TV.

"Dude," Dean scoffed as he peered into the fast food bag, "Did you eat all the extra fries?"

o0O0o

A week later, the event had faded from Sam's conscious thoughts. Dean let the matter drop, and Sam only remembered about it when he lay on his back, pressing against the tender bruise there. But all scuffs between them, as bruises, faded with time and ignorance.

And as Sam had always known, Dean could be pretty ignorant.

"The car unlocked? I forgot the laptop."

Dean looked up from the TV, his hand in mid-air over the plate of fries on his chest. "Yeah. Oh- and hey. Get my drink from earlier. That Red Bull shit is addictive."

Sam watched Dean shovel another handful of fries into his mouth, chewing contentedly. A repeat of Scrubs was playing on the TV and Dean's quiet chuckles shook two fries to the bedspread. Sam smiled, always appreciating the lighter moments, and left without a word.

A dying sun stained the parking lot deep orange. The Impala sparkled, the black paint reflecting the sky like a mirror, pulling the colors around her like a new skin. Tears stung Sam's eyes as he approached and he looked away, blinking to adjust his vision.

He pulled open the back door and grabbed the laptop from the floorboards. They'd pulled into town a few hours ago and rented a room with the first motel promising free breakfast. They hadn't been on a hunt in a week and the liberty of driving aimlessly was wearing thin. They were brothers, after all, and Sam could only tolerate so much of his within car's confines.

The back door shut with a clang and he moved to the driver's door. It opened with a coffin-creak and Sam tucked the laptop under his arm before leaning in and grabbing the open can of Red Bull. The stuff would be warm by now, probably nothing more that flat, red syrup. A gentle shake told him the can was less than half-full anyway. Whatever.

Sam backed out of the car and pushed the door shut with his knee, readjusting his grip on the laptop. The streetlights flickered on, buzzing lowly overhead. Sam headed back to the motel, intent on finding them a hunt even if he had to stay up all night to do so. If he had to sit in the car all day again tomorrow, he'd go crazy.

He saw the shadow before he could react, a dark flash of rainbow against the pavement to his left. He tensed, ducked and spun, ankles twisted awkwardly as a leather-gloved hand covered his mouth. His hands were wrenched behind his back, the laptop and can clattering to the ground. Something covered his eyes. Something stung his neck.

He tried to shout, tried to ask 'who', tried to outlast the warm numbness spreading through his body. The body behind him held on like iron and Sam's struggles turned frenzied with panic. His strength faded- or was overpowered- and he sank to his knees, eyelids heavy.

It wasn't fair. Dean was fifty feet away, watching TV in their room. Sam screamed, the sound muted and distorted against the stranger's white glove, and the irony of it all tore a chocked sob from him before the blackness swallowed him.


	2. Chapter 2

The body went limp and Stan dropped it to the ground, yanking the syringe from the stranger's neck before tossing it away, under the parked cars. Needles carry diseases, the nurses had told him long ago, and you should never use one more than once. Never jab yourself- you'll get sick. Be very careful with them. Very bad germs lived in blood.

Stan wiped his hands on his pants and checked his buttons. They were all there, still fastened properly. Satisfied his outfit was still in order, he readjusted the red ball on his nose and bent to grab his newest captive by the armpits.

This one was thinner than he preferred, but still tall and weighted by lean muscle. Good, maybe this boy will last longer than the last one had. Coming out in public like this made Stan nervous, made his left hand tremble more than usual as anxiety quickened his heart rate. He feared being seen, especially by adults, and lost the ability to function if approached by them. People spread disease. He had to move fast, drag the body as fast as he could to his van, and hope the scraping of rubber soles over pavement didn't elicit any attention.

He was sweating by the time he reached the van and the wetness under his arms and dripping down his spine and sternum made him want a shower. His mother would be angry at him for soiling his outfit. It had to be made special, just for him, because years of eating nothing but fast food had bloated his stomach and padded his bones with gelatinous fat. Fat Stan. The neighborhood kids would stand on the sidewalk, pointing and laughing. Fat Stan.

Stopping, letting the boy fall to the ground, Stan wiped his hands on his pants. Sweat dripped from his temples, his scalp burning under the acrylic yellow wig. His face paint would start to smear soon, he had to hurry up. He checked his buttons, relieved they were all still there.

Stan pulled open the van's back door, wiped his hands, checked his buttons. He grabbed the boy, grunted as he lifted and shoved and rolled the body over the metal, loading him up. The drug would keep the boy down for at least another hour, plenty of time for Stan to get everything set up. He shut the door, wiped his hands, and checked his buttons.

After walking in three circles, counter clockwise around the van, he got in and headed to the nearest drive-through.

o0O0o

Sam came-to with a groan, born of pain but developing into one of frustration and annoyance. The hard coldness under him, the heavy links of chain around his wrists and ankles, the lingering fuzziness of something foreign coursing through his bloodstream… Fuck, not again. This shit was really getting old.

"Deh…" he murmured, pressing his face into the ground, away from the pain in his own head. His tongue, swollen and dry, stuck to the roof of his mouth. The chains clinked as he stirred.

The air hardened, thick and tense as though someone were leaning close. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, wincing as he prepared to face his doom, then blinked himself to awareness.

Dirt. Clumps of grass, browned and bent and wilted. Beyond that, red. A wall of red, bright and glowing, wavering. Fabric? The sky was red- he was in a tent. He didn't understand. Camping? His vision blurred, fixed on the wall of red, holding steady as thoughts flittered unattainably through his mind.

"Get up. I can see you're awake."

Sam sucked in a breath, looking toward the voice, blinking the bright colors into focus. A painted face glared down at him, surrounded by a cloud of bright yellow hair. Below his double chin was an oversized bow tie, and below that, the man was dressed in a crisp rainbow suit.

A clown. Sam had been kidnapped by a sweaty, overweight clown.

"Ohgod," he groaned, closing his eyes.

"I said get up!"

The kick to his side bruised his bottom ribs; an explosion of pain in the soft, unprotected area above his hip. Grinding his teeth, Sam curled into it, breathing hard.

"Listen to me! When I tell you to do something, you do it dammit."

Sam was pulled upright by his hair and slammed back against a pole. The tent quivered in response, as did his confidence. His spine flashed in white-hot pain, sending bolts of numbness to his fingers and toes.

"There. Wasn't so hard, was it? Bad boys have to be punished, have to be made to listen. You don't listen. You're bad."

The clown wiped his gloved hands on his pants then stared down at his chest, counting quickly and quietly. Sam watched blankly, swallowing against the push of nausea in his chest.

He took a breath and forced sound from his throat. "Who are you?"

"Stan. My name is Stan. Not fat. Who are you?"

"Sam." The name slipped from his lips on a whisper, and he wanted to snatch it back. "Why am I here?"

Stan looked down at him, breathing through his mouth as sweat dripped from the yellow wig. "You're here because I want you here. Now you have to do what I say. I can make you."

Sam shook his head, closing his eyes against the vertigo. "I'm not doing anything for you."

"Yes you are!"

The blow sent him to the ground, chains clanking, his shoulder jarring and sending up a cloud of dust. Pain choked him and before he could stop it, hot bile surged up his throat and filled his mouth. Sam spit, unable to lift his head from the ground, and prayed the tears of humiliation would not fall.

"Oh God- is that- Oh God. You're disgusting. Oh God, you made a mess. Clean it up! Right now, clean it up!"

Another kick to the ribs had him curling in, a delayed attempt at self-protection. His cheek smeared through the mess, filling his ear, slicking his neck and hair. The chains pulled tight; he must have reached the ends of his short tethers- although they were overkill, paranoid insurance by his fucked up captor.

As much as it scared him, Sam wasn't going anywhere.

o0O0o

"_Hi, you've reached Sam, leave me a message…"_

Dean closed his fist around the phone, ending the call with white knuckles. "Damnit Sam…" he growled, tossing the phone onto the empty passenger seat. It bounced off the leather towards the door and disappeared. "Fuck!"

The Impala ate up the pavement like she knew the urgency of this run, understood what- or _who_- was at stake. Her throaty rumble underscored the thumping beat of classic rock, but Dean listened to neither.

"Where in the hell did he go?" he demanded of her, beating the steering wheel when she failed to answer.

The laptop lay on the floorboards, scratched and dirty but not broken. Finding it abandoned in the parking lot had scared him just as much as any ransom note- it meant someone had stolen his brother and Sam was no one's to steal. Sam was a person, a living breathing person, Dean's little brother for God's sake- and stealing people was the number one thing on the list of things that pissed Dean Winchester off.

And ironically, said little brother was often the very next item on the list.

But that didn't matter now, because Dean had just one objective on his mind: to find Sam and the son of a bitch that took him. He took the next turn and took his foot off the gas, letting the heavy car coast as he searched the sidewalks and alleys for Sam.

How could someone so tall and gangly always manage to disappear without a trace?


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Notes**: Thanks for all the very kind reviews. I am out of town right now so I apologize for the slow updates and tiny chapters. Please bear with me and keep enjoying the story.

As always, thanks to Amy and Carikube for their ideas and guidance.

* * *

When he was finished, the air smelled strongly of bleach. It stung his noise, filling his eyes with hot tears, even burned his throat- but the ground was finally clean. The sour odor of vomit was gone. 

Stan wiped his hands on his pants and checked his buttons, then eyed his prisoner with hatred. It was bad to make a mess, bad to make other people clean up after you. Mother always beat him for making such a mess, such a disgusting, disease-ridden mess. It was bad, germs were bad, blood was dirty, and don't ever use the same needle twice.

Sam lay still against the center pole, breathing silently in his sleep. His skin was red where Stan had cleaned it, scrubbed his face and neck with bleach to kill the disease. Vomit had disease, and disease killed people.

Stan did not want to die.

He paced near the entrance of the tent, waiting. Five steps, turn, five steps. Outside, footsteps crunched in the gravel, the wind carried fragments of conversations on cotton-candy scented air. The circus would shut its gates in less than three hours and then, he could start in on his prisoner. The darkness always brought safety.

"Wake up," he ordered, his skin itchy beneath his rainbow clothes. "Wake up, get up."

Sam's head rolled, stopping against his shoulder. "H-hurts…"

"Open your eyes."

Sam's breathing grew deeper, but he made no other movement.

He was tired of this. Stan snatched the knife from the strap around his ankle and closed the distance between them, confident that no one would interfere- because no one ever had before. His left hand trembled and flexed, sparks of heat and pin pricks shooting up his arm, into his chest, through his veins. "Wake up!" he yelled. "Wake up right now!"

He stared at the buttons on Sam's shirt, the tiny blue buttons each with four holes, and tightened his fist around the knife.

o0O0o

Sam jerked. He opened his eyes to see Stan bearing down, reaching out, grabbing a handful of Sam's shirt.

"Buttons, buttons are mine, Mother gave them to me!"

The flash of a blade sent him reeling back, slamming his skull against the pole with a hollow thump. Eyes wide, fists clenched, Sam held his breath as the knife sliced through his shirt, ripping the fabric, stinging his skin. Belatedly, blood welled.

Stan plucked the buttons from Sam's lap, from the ground where they dropped. His breath, heavy and greasy, heated Sam's face.

They sat in limbo for a moment, Sam staring at Stan as the clown clutched the buttons protectively, against his chest.

"Let me go," Sam panted- begged, whichever. His face stung, the skin felt pulled tight and burned. The air reeked of bleach. What the hell had happened? The pain in his chest intensified, and Sam realized he was helpless. "I won't tell anyone… just let me go."

The man before him was crazy; absolutely, certifiably, one hundred percent off his rocker. Sam didn't know what to do. How do you reason with someone who lacked sanity? Give him a ghost or a demon or even a fucking gateway to Hell- but leave the crazies to someone else. He tested the chains once more.

"No, nope, no way, I can't let you go," Stan replied, the hand holding the knife trembling. Lion food, kitty is hungry, have to feed the kitty."

Unease dropped like a weight in Sam's stomach when Stan's gaze settled on his crotch. He tensed, fully awake and on guard, fully prepared to fight.

Stan grabbed for him and Sam kicked out, the blow weakened by the heavy chain around his ankles. Gloved hands caught him, shoved his legs to the floor, pinned him there. Stan grunted as Sam writhed with all his strength, bucking against the floor, eyes glued to the hand that moved toward his groin.

"This one too," Stan growled, grabbing the button of Sam's fly and slicing it free. Immediately, he sat back.

Sam recoiled, out of breath and flushed from exertion, and tried to gather his composure.

o0O0o

"You see this guy?" Dean held the cell phone up, the display facing the man in the doorway. "He's about this tall, shaggy brown hair, had on jeans and a… a, uh…"

Fuck! Why couldn't he remember what color shirt Sam had on? It had only been three hours. This had to put him at the top of the horrible big brother list. Dean clenched his fists and glanced away, finishing lamely, "A shirt. One of those button-down things."

The man in the doorway, potbellied and masked by unkempt facial hair, narrowed his eyes. "Is that a spoon sticking out of his mouth?"

With a long-suffering sigh, Dean replied, "Yes. It's a spoon. Have you seen him?"

"I ain't seen no guy with a spoon sticking out of his mouth."

"Without the spoon?" Dean snapped.

The man shook his head. "Nope. Sorry."

Dean pocketed the phone and slammed his hand on the door, forcing it open as the man tried to shut it. "Anyone? Did you see _anyone_ out here?"

The man's eyes narrowed in the shadows of his dirty ball cap. "No. I've been trying to get some sleep, that's what people tend to do in motels. Maybe you should keep this guy on a leash, if he's so prone to wandering off."

This was _so_ not the best time for being a smartass. "He's not prone to anything, 'cept doing something stupid and getting himself hurt for someone else. He was taken, and seein' as how you're in the room right next to ours, I figured you might've heard something." He glared at the man expectantly, every second of inaction winding him tighter.

"No, man, I ain't seen or heard nothing. Now get lost, I gotta load up a circus tomorrow."

This time, Dean let the door shut. He glared at the brass door numbers, cursing the occupant of room number 15, cursing the door between them, cursing the ground and the sky and the fucking birds that still sung as if everything was right in the world. Darkness was descending slowly, bruising the sky, thick shadows pooling on the ground. Dean turned and marched along the building, coming to a stop in front of room 14.

Taking a deep, steeling breath, Dean banged on the door.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Notes**: Please remember this story takes place before Nightshifter. Also thanks again to Amy and Carikube, who keep me going.

* * *

"Whatcha got in the bag, Tiny? Dinner?"

Stan clutched the bag to his chest, his leather gloves tightening around his knuckles. His heart banged against his chest, sweat broke out under his suit. Alligator Man stood in the shadows, leaning against his tent's support tie. The white nylon string bowed under the weight.

"Don't you think you're fat enough? Look at you, you're disgusting. Give me the bag."

Stan backed up. "No. It's mine, I bought it, with my money, I paid for it, it's mine and I need it-"

"Give it to me!" Alligator Man lunged and snatched the food away, the dying sun flashing over him before he retreated to the shadows. "Fat Stan. You don't need to eat. Hell, you should be thanking me. I'm doing you a favor."

Stan eyed the bag, wiping his hands on his pants. His left hand trembled, his brain struggled to think. It was his food, he paid for it, he wanted it. But more than that, he was afraid. The conflict upset him, and Stan stood dumbly.

Alligator Man dug into the bag and started eating the French fries. He stared at Stan, then at the tent behind him. "What's in your tent, Stan?"

_No!_ Panic seized him, and Stan backed up more. "Nothing. Buttons. My buttons. Mother gave them to me. Stay out."

"I hear you talking, you know. Yelling. You yell at yourself, Tiny? Because you're so stupid?"

Stan looked away as his mother's voice screamed in his head, called him stupid and worthless and a failure. The accident made him that way, had broken something in his head, and Stan remembered the nurses and the needles and the blood and germs were bad. He wiped his hands on his pants and checked his buttons.

Alligator Man continued eating. "You have got to be the strangest clown I've ever worked with- and trust me, that's not a compliment." He shook his head and straightened, taking his weight off the cord. "Keep it down tonight, or I'll see to it that you never talk to yourself again, understand?"

Stan swallowed thickly, nodding. Quiet. He had to be quiet. The boy had to be quiet.

"Oh, and thanks for the grub." Alligator Man chuckled as he entered his own tent, the sound deep and rumbling like rolling stones.

Released from the other man's scrutiny, Stan turned and marched into his own tent.

Quiet. They had to be quiet.

o0O0o

Sam bit his tongue, ignoring the tear that rolled down his nose, and pulled again.

The chains bit into his wrist, pinching his skin, pulling at the knobby joint under his thumb. His fingers tingled. Pain lanced through his thumb and pinky, radiating through his palm and up into his elbow. Tendons stretched, bone grated, joints felt ready to break apart. Just a little more…

Stan burst through the tent's flap and Sam fell back against the pole, panting.

"What are you doing? Stop it! You can't go anywhere, not until I say so. You have to be quiet. Quiet!"

Thick snot coated his throat and Sam swallowed, determined to conceal all signs of his fear. The burning on his face ebbed somewhat but the skin felt blistered and burned if he smiled.

Not that he was smiling.

Stan walked to a battered wooden chest and bent over it, slowly and carefully working the combination lock securing it. When it opened, he pulled the lock from the latch and opened the lid, straightening.

"Its night," Stan announced and Sam had no choice but to listen. "Night is safe. No one can see you. Don't need costumes. Everyone sleeps."

Sam watched the clown take himself apart, first the nose, then the hair. "Why are you doing this? What do you want?"

"Don's talk!" Stan whispered loudly, holding a gloved finger to his lips. "Quiet. Stay quiet. He'll hear us. He'll hurt us."

Frustration erupted within him, intense and unbidden. "Let me go," Sam said, pleading, ordering, his desperation gathering momentum with every breath. "Untie me!"

Stan's eyes widened with fear and he reached in the trunk, pulling out a red satin handkerchief. "Stupid boy! Stop it! Be quiet!"

The gag was tied tightly, the knot pulling the hair at the back of his head. The fabric pinched the corners of his mouth, igniting the skin on his face. He bit down, tongue scraping against the handkerchief. His hair fell in his eyes.

It did not keep him from making noise, only from forming intelligible words, and Sam groaned in aggravation. His shirt clung to his sides, exposing his chest and the long line of blood running vertically. His jeans, worn low to begin with, were now around his ass. Bit by bit, he was being dismantled, stripped of dignity.

He wanted freedom, he wanted away, he wanted Dean.

o0O0o

Dean rested his forearms on the Impala's roof and leaned on her, lowering his head with a sigh.

Sam was gone. Sucked up without a trace, pulled into a third dimension that was invisible to Dean. Again.

It was time to go to the police.

It would be a gamble with his own life, but for Dean, there was no hesitation. His life had schooled him well in the game of chance, and Dean was fairly confident that the officers of this one-horse town would not know a con artist when they saw one. Confidence and a good fake name had worked in his favor before, when Sam had been kidnapped by that sick and twisted Bender family- it had to work again now.

It had to.

Behind him, a car door shut and an engine purred to life. Cursing himself for letting his guard down, Dean spun and watched the car back up, wincing when the headlights blinded him.

Darkness settled over him as the car drove away, and Dean blinked until his pupils dilated once more. He scanned the parking lot. It was empty and quiet, all the motel occupants tucked away behind closed doors.

All accounted for, except one.

Something shiny caught his gaze and Dean stared at it. It was small, laying discarded a few parking spaces down, reflecting yellow from the streetlight overhead. Looked like a pen, or maybe a tube of lip gloss. Nonetheless, Dean made his way over to it.

Drawing nearer, he recognized the clear measured tube of a syringe, a thin silver quill glinting softly at one end. He bent, reached out and hesitated, realizing the syringe could have been left behind by a drug addict but betting it was discarded by whoever took Sam. There were no such things as coincidences, after all.

Dean lifted the syringe and searched for a clue he would not find. Lifting his gaze to the darkness beyond: "Where are you, Sam?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Notes:** Please remember the language warning, kids. HUGE thanks to everyone who's reading, and my deepest gratitude to Amy and Carikube.

* * *

"Don't move. I'm not very good at this yet."

Stan held the throwing knife by the blade, closed one eye, and took aim. His target- or rather, what he was supposed to _not_ hit- sat wide-eyed and stock-still against the decorated plywood, still bound and gagged.

With a flick of the wrist, he threw the knife. It somersaulted through the air and landed with a _thunk_ two inches from Sam's left ear. The boy's nostrils flared.

Stan frowned. "Not good enough. Gotta get closer. Mr. Miles said I have to learn something new, something the kids will like. I think they'll like this, don't you? Kids like dangerous things. Sharp things. Things they're not supposed to play with. Bad kids. Bad boy."

The blades were sharp, he'd already cut his thumb by accident and had to get a bandage from the Mustache Lady. She reminded him of his mother- before the accident, back when he wasn't stupid and she still loved him. Before he became a bad boy.

He took aim and threw again. Sam flinched, even though this knife landed further away than the first one. A flare of panic numbed Stan's fingers- what if he couldn't get this right? What if he lost his job, where would he go? Where would he live? Who would want him? He wiped his free hand on his pants and checked his buttons.

Sam made a noise, the words jumbled by the handkerchief tied around his head. "Shut up," Stan snapped, raising the third knife. He had two left. "Quiet, be quiet, or he'll come hurt us. At night, bad men come when you scream. Quiet. Be good, don't move."

He threw the knife, letting the blade slip from his fingers as his arm extended. It _flash-flash-flashed_ through the air, glinting in the firelight from the lantern, and sank to the hilt in Sam's bicep.

Sam grunted, his eyes squeezed shut, and blood started seeping from around the knife, glistening.

Blood, dark and wet. Germs. Death.

"You're bleeding! Stop it- not inside! Blood is bad, blood has germs, germs kill and I don't want to die!" Stan dropped the last two knives and ran to the trunk, throwing open the lid. Blood inside was bad- blood belonged outside, on the tarp, after he protected himself with goggles and gloves and a plastic suit. Stan pulled out another silk handkerchief- this one yellow- and the gallon of bleach.

He had to kill the germs before they killed him.

o0O0o

Sam panted through his nose, the back of his throat stinging as his eyes watered. The blade seared his muscle and his fingers curled, desperate to rip the knife out. He could feel the weight of the handle tilting the blade up, aggravating the wound with every breath. He'd had knife wounds before and knew his mortality was safe- unless the bastard had put something on the blade. Poison, the plague- who knew? This guy was crazy. Suddenly Sam was as worried about 'germs' as his captor.

He squirmed. At least he wasn't pinned to the board behind him.

Although chained as he was, he might as well be.

"Kill the germs, germs are bad, germs are death, don't want to die…"

Sam looked up to see Stan approaching with a bottle of bleach and a yellow bandana. The guy just threw a fucking knife at him, and now he wanted to clean? What the hell…

Stan kneeled down in front of him and twisted the cap off the bleach. He soaked the bandana and reached for the knife.

Sam threw himself backward, shouting through the hot, soggy gag. The chains pulled tight, his muscles locked and rigid. The bandana dripped clear liquid to the floor and the odor of bleach threatened to expel his stomach.

Without warning or gentleness, the knife was pulled out. It hurt like a bitch and tears filled his eyes, but it was a necessary evil and Sam was glad for it. Stan doused the blade in bleach, ignoring Sam. A pink puddle pooled in the dirt by his knee and the knife was tossed aside.

Sam was still staring at the discarded knife when fire exploded in his arm. He cried out before he could bite down and the intensity of the pain sent him crashing to the ground, straining against the chains. Blind with agony, he pulled and pulled and clawed and kicked, determined to bring the fucking tent down with him if that's what it took. Still, the pain continued.

Stan moved with him, pressing the bleach-soaked rag to his arm, tying it in place tightly.

Eyes closed tightly, Sam knew the chemical was slowly dissolving his flesh.

Tears splashed to the dirt beneath him.

o0O0o

Through skillful lies and manipulation, the ABP was out. The official hunt for Sam had begun.

Unable to simply return to the motel and go to sleep, Dean cruised the dark streets, circling, searching, the Impala providing her own brand of comfort when all else in the world was wrong. The car was his touchstone, his safe place, his hope. That Emily Dickenson chick was wrong- hope was the thing with _wheels_.

The drug in the syringe was acepromazine, a tranquillizer that, when injected, lasted around twelve hours depending on the dose. Providing the kidnapper only wanted to render Sam helpless and not dead, there shouldn't be any major side affects. Still, that bit of information did not bode well with Dean. It meant Sam was out there somewhere, drugged defenseless and in the hands of who-knows-what kind of maniacal serial killer.

Demons didn't use drugs, after all. When they wanted something- someone- they just took it.

But in a way, Sam being in the hands of a crazy person was even worse. People killed just for the fun of it, not because they were cursed or seeking revenge or under the control of a power-hungry teenager who was angry at the world. People were complex, they often did things that made sense only to them, and their souls always weighted your conscious when you pulled the trigger.

Dean sighed and rubbed his face, stretching his jaw. The Impala's headlights scraped over the blacktop, parting the night for the car's passage; sleek glass through black ink. Inside, Skynyrd's 'Simple Man' haunted the speakers quietly. Scanning the streets, Dean forced the car to move as slow as it ever had. If there was a clue, he would find it.

A flash of movement sent his foot stomping the brake pedal to the floorboard, causing the Impala to dive, squealing in protest. Dean narrowed his eyes, trying to separate the jumble of writhing shadows. Then there it was- a glimpse of shaggy hair atop a tall, lean form.

The person was on the ground. Above him, two others were attacking.

Dean was out of the car and running before his first breath of fresh air. He shouted, hoping to stop the violence before he covered the distance, desperate to stop Sam's pain. The aggressors froze, straightening, eyes flashing white under the moon.

"Get away from him!" Dean pulled his gun and aimed it, stomping to a stop, his stance wide and sure.

The two men raised their hands in surrender, inching back. "Hey man," the one on the left said, "This ain't none of your concern. We're just making it so this wet-back takes his weak-ass ice back across the border before we deliver him there in a wooden box."

Dean risked a glance at the man on the ground. The Mexican man that stared back at him was most definitely not Sam. Dean cursed, his trigger finger relaxing as his desperation twisted tighter.

He turned his attention back to the two men standing. "Get out of here," he ordered, gesturing toward the street with the gun. "Start walking, and don't think about trying anything cute. This is one of the worst nights of my life and I'd hate to waste a couple bullets on the two of you."

The two men, as stoned as anyone Dean had ever seen, did as they were told. The man at his feet began to rise, slowly, his pain audible. Dean held the gun on the attackers until they were gone, then lowered it and let go with one hand, flexing his fingers.

"Thanks," said the Mexican- a young man with thick, wavy hair and dark eyes. Built like Sam, yet disappointingly not. "I owe you."

Dean shoved the gun against his back, the cold muzzle kissing his spine. "Don't mention it." He turned toward the Impala.

"Hey!" the stranger called. When Dean looked back, he was holding out a small baggie, jiggling it once. The white rock inside bounced. "Token of appreciation?"

Dean shook his head once and turned back to the car. "Keep it, man. I got more important things to do."

He had a brother to find.


	6. Chapter 6

Stan watched the lions pace back and forth, back and forth, the shadows of the bars passing over their long bodies with each step. Their eyes reflected green in the moonlight and their feet thumped softly in the dirt and straw. They watched him hungrily, their bellies swaying as did their tails.

The thin metal handle hurt his fingers so he set the heavy bucket on the ground then rubbed his knuckles. Zamba, the biggest male, sat on his haunches and stared.

"This is the last of it," Stan said, stepping over the safety barrier and approaching the bars. "But I'll have fresh food soon. You'll just have to do without for a day or two. You'll make it. Lions can live for days without food. Mother told me- she read it in a book when I was little." Before the accident, when she still loved him.

Zamba stared at the bucket and lipped his lips. Behind him, the other lions stood patiently.

Stan pulled the large, thick black rubber gloves from his pocket and slipped them on over his white leather gloves- the gloves he never took off. Crickets chirped incessantly from the shadows. After checking to make sure he was truly alone, Stan dipped his hand into the bucket and grabbed a hunk of the meat.

Blood dipped to the ground as he held it out to Zamba. The lion stood and watched the food, grabbing it as soon as Stan's hand passed through the bars. Three-inch long canine teeth flashed and the smell of musk emanated from the animal's thick fur. It ate quickly, head and mane jerking as it chewed once, twice, and swallowed. The other lions sniffed the air and licked their lips but stayed back, giving dominance to their leader.

Knowing Zamba would never get his fill, Stan rationed the food himself, alternately feeding Zamba and tossing bits to the others. The meat never hit the ground.

Stan admired the lions. They had power. People were afraid of them- never tried to hurt them. And the lions in turn did not fear people. It seemed a game to them: roaring and swiping their huge claws in between the bars at whoever got too close. People would scream and run, and Zamba would laugh. Stan wanted that ability. He was jealous of it.

The lions never made fun of Stan, never called him fat or stupid.

Piece by piece, the bucket grew empty. The crickets chirped, the lions chewed and slurped and growled at one another. The smell of blood filled the air.

Soon, only one piece remained. Lifting the bucket, Stan reached to the bottom and grabbed the bloody finger, then tossed it to Zamba.

"What the hell are you doing out here, Tiny? Those lions eat idiots like you, you know. Get away from there."

Stan spun. Strong Man stepped out of the shadows, his bald head reflecting the moonlight as he approached. Stan tightened his hold on the bucket. "Nothing. Lilly said I could."

The lion's caretaker had indeed given him permission to feed them- once, long ago.

"She did, huh? So this is a midnight snack for all of you?" Strong Man shook his head in disgust. "No wonder you're so fat. And now you're making the animals fat, too."

Stan backed away from the lions. "They like it." Unable to wipe his hands, he checked his buttons twice.

"Of course they do, they're gluttonous. You know what that means?"

"Yes." Stan was very aware of the seven sins. Very aware.

"Get out of here. You gotta help take down the tents tomorrow. You didn't forget, did you?"

"No."

Strong Man stopped just a few feet away, glaring. His eyes dropped to Stan's gloves and the bucket. "Jesus- what are you feeding them? Look at this mess. It's all over the ground…"

Stan looked down. Drops of blood and bits of fat littered the ground outside the cage. He stepped back, suddenly scared the germs would crawl to his shoe and penetrate his skin. He tried to wipe his hands, stopped himself, and checked his buttons. Twice. "It's meat," he said at last, suddenly desperate to get clean. "Just meat. The bugs will clean up the dirt. It'll be gone tomorrow morning."

Strong Man stared at him but Stan avoided the scrutiny. After a moment, he said, "Yeah, I guess it will. We all will. Gone without a trace, right?"

"Right." Stan didn't know why he agreed, he just wanted to get back to his tent. Sam could be awake by now. "I gotta go now."

"Yeah, you do that," Strong Man replied, staring at Zamba now. "And don't forget to wash off that blood. Don't want bugs coming in your tent."

o0O0o

Torn from his unconsciousness by a pain in his bladder, Sam opened his eyes to blackness. Nearby: steady, labored breathing. Stan? Beyond that, crickets. What time was it?

His arm still burned to the bone and the chains held him to the pole, heavy and hard against his sore joints. His head pounded, his ribs ached, and his mouth was dry and tasted of blood. His jeans were around his thighs now and his shirt and boxers were splattered with his own blood. Groaning softly through the gag, Sam slowly stretched the kinks from his neck and limbs. The chains clinked quietly.

Every movement threatened to burst his bladder but he refused to be robbed of this one last dignity. He would _not_ piss himself, not when it was the only semblance of control he still had.

Control. He needed more of it, needed to get himself out of this mess and far, far away. He couldn't sit here and wait for a rescue. Dean probably had no clue where Sam was right now- Sam sure the hell didn't. Where was his phone? He didn't feel it in his pocket but hadn't seen Stan with it either.

Once again, he pressed his fingers together as tight as they would go and started pulling. The pressure of unforgiving iron on his bruised and tender wrist nearly dropped him. Sam clenched his jaw and pushed through it, just as he had been taught when he was younger. Things always got worse before they got better, ignore the pain and it will go away. Think about something else. Take a deep breath. It'll all be over in a second.

Sam pulled. The chain bit into the bone of his finger joints, the fattest part of his hand. In response to the abuse, his fingers tingled and throbbed. Sam pulled harder.

He thought about the irony of it all- how just one week ago Dean had teased him about his childish fear of clowns, told Sam to face his fears and get over it. Clowns were just clowns, just people, and it was irrational to fear them. Irrational fears made you weak, made you screw up, could even get you killed.

Did getting drugged, kidnapped, beaten and stabbed by a clown finally validate his fears? Could he finally point Dean in the chest and say, 'I told you so?'

Sam stared at the oversized wig, darkened by shadows where it lay atop the wooden trunk. Fire raced through his fingers, heating them, causing them to swell. But he was almost…

With a pop, his thumb shifted and his hand slipped from the chain. Sam winced at the noise, listening, waiting, but the snoring remained steady. A flash of anger surged through him- how could that man sleep so soundly while Sam sat in chains not twenty feet away?

Perhaps he didn't want to know. Sam gently forced feeling back into his hand, flexing his fingers slowly, not surprised when his thumb wouldn't cooperate. He didn't dwell on it- dislocation was a small price to pay for his freedom.

He reached up and pulled the gag from his mouth, reveling in the feeling of simply being able to move his tongue. Next he worked the bandage from around his arm, damp with blood and bleach, his fingers slipping over the knot again and again. His fumbling reignited the pain, but as with the chains, Sam pushed through it. The chemical burned, seared to the bone, eating away at his skin and the longer in stayed in contact, the more damage it would cause. Molars clenched, Sam worked at the knot and breathed heavily through his nose. At last, the rag plopped to the ground beside him.

Sam knew he would not be able to escape, even if he could free both hands. His ankles were bound tightly and if he simply pulled free, he would not be able to walk. Stan kept the key in his pocket, on a key ring with several others. And while Sam's reach had improved with his partial escape, there was no way he could get the keys without waking his captor. He would have to wait till morning and use the element of surprise.

He needed a weapon.

But first, he had to take a leak before he drowned from the inside out.

Several minutes later, Sam could concentrate. The smell of urine hung thickly in the air, but at least he hadn't made a mess of himself. Instead, a large, dark puddle reflected blue just inside the tent's door. With any luck, Stan would accidentally trample through it.

The wooden trunk was just within reach. Sam stretched, fingers trembling, arms heavy and stiff, but at last he was able to grab the handle. As he pulled, the trunk caught in the clumps of grass and Sam fought, tugging and jerking and going light-headed with exertion until finally he was able to open the lid.

Inside laid the last two throwing knives.

o0O0o

It was nearly dawn. Dean had a massive headache, his eyes were dry and blurry, and the Impala's gas gauge was almost on 'E'. They both needed a rest and the chance to refuel, but for Dean, sleep was impossible.

He stood in the parking lot, leaning against the Impala's front fender, and stared at the spot where he'd found the syringe. Moths fluttered about under a buzzing streetlight, diving and dipping erratically after thunking against the hot bulb. Served the bastards right, getting the sense knocked from their tiny heads. Greedy bastards deserved it.

Where was Sam? What happened? Who took him? Why? Was he okay?

Of course, Dean could only assume the assailant was human, and he (no way it was a she) had tranquilized Sam. The syringe _could_ have been dropped before, from a lot lizard passing through or even some random addict on their way to score another hit. But that would mean there was _no_ clue as to Sam's whereabouts, and Dean just couldn't handle that right now. That syringe _was_ a clue, because if something supernatural took Sam, the search would be broadened to impossible scopes.

Dean wasn't fond of those odds.

He'd spent the early morning hours searching the streets, calling hotels, the hospitals, even searching all-night diners and bars. They were long shots but they were indeed shots and Dean always took all he could get. Now he could only hope the police could do what he could not.

A door creaked open and Dean looked up. The pot-bellied trucker stepped out into the blue glow of pre-dawn and pulled the door shut behind him. He walked to the management office, went inside, then reappeared minutes later and walked into the parking lot. His boots scrapped the pavement and smoke curled from a cigarette hanging from his lips.

He glanced at Dean as he approached, an unfriendly sidelong glance from under the bill of a Bud Light ball cap. The end of the cigarette glowed as he inhaled. He exhaled slowly, holding the cigarette between his fingers. "You parking lot security or something?"

"My brother is still out there."

"You sure he didn't just go home with some chick?"

Dean glanced away briefly, amused by the absurdity of the question. "I'm sure."

The trucker grunted, nodding once. He looked around the parking lot, then back at Dean, and tapped the ashes from the cigarette. "You been out here all night?"

"I've been around." Wanting so desperately to find Sam that he was seeing him in every shadow.

"Yeah." The trucker turned, facing his semi that was parked at the edge of the dark lot. It dwarfed the Impala like no other car could, and Dean couldn't help but be a little intimidated by that. "I hope you find him, man. I really do. My brother's the only family I got- the little bastard."

At that, Dean half-smiled. He returned the other man's 'goodbye' nod and watched him move away, boots scraping the pavement, head down, cigarette smoke rising in translucent puffs.

The eighteen-wheeler rumbled to life. Dean stared at the vehicle as it pulled away, studying the images painted on the side: roaring lions, fire-breathing men, a smiling clown with a handful of bright balloons. Sam would hate that truck, and thinking of his brother dropped Dean right back into his melancholy.

Alone in the parking lot, a midnight-blue sky stretched out overhead, Dean tried to figure out what to do next.


	7. Chapter 7

Stan dipped the small sponge into the jar of white paint and shook it once, then started adding the final tough-up layer to his face. The paint was cool at first but quickly warmed as he spread it over his skin. He pushed back the acrylic yellow hair, carefully traced around the red paint covering his mouth, then went lower, covering his jaw and throat. When he was done, he set the sponge on the dressing table and wiped his gloved hands on his pants. He tilted his head this way and that, checking to be sure he was fully concealed, then grabbed the hollow rubber ball and stuck it on his nose.

"Don't you ever take it off?"

Stan looked in the mirror at Sam, who was still tied to the center pole, jeans around his thighs, left arm streaked in blood. The gag hung loose around his neck. He looked exhausted, which was to be expected, and a result Stan desired. When you were weak, you couldn't fight back.

"What?" Stan asked. Outside, the semi trucks were starting to arrive. The animals would get loaded up first, he had plenty of time to hide his captive. "Take what off?"

"The makeup."

"Shut up." Stan stood and grabbed his keys. His stomach rumbled and there was just enough time to go through the drive through before he would be expected to help pack up.

He took a step then stopped. Suddenly something was wrong. Stan stared at Sam. Something changed… the gag. "How'd you get that off?" He took a step then stopped, uncertainty warring with control.

Sam held his gaze. "I've had some practice."

Stan stared at him, wiping his hands on his pants. He glanced at his buttons, not counting them this time, unable to tear his attention from the boy for more than a second. He had to replace the gag- if he left Sam now, someone would surely find him. Stan couldn't take that risk, couldn't let himself get caught yet. He wasn't done with Sam.

"Going somewhere?" Sam asked, his voice cool and level, though his eyes smoldered. He glanced at the keys in Stan's hand.

Stan fisted the keys. "You talk too much. Nobody likes boys who talk too much. Shut up." He approached, reaching for the gag. "I'll make you shut up."

But suddenly Sam was up and swinging, knife in hand, the blade slicing Stan's fingers. Shock masked the pain and Stan jumped back, just out of reach of Sam who was still chained by one arm. A voice screamed in his head: _He's bad, fight back!_ and Stan struck down hard on Sam's forearm, causing the knife to drop to the dirt. _Keep hitting! Get him!_ Seizing the opening, Stan punched again, the blow landing on the bleach burns on Sam's cheek.

Quicker than a viper, Sam's arm shot out and Stan fell hard, landing flat on his back. Both on the ground now, they each fought for the upper hand. A blow to his cheek snapped Stan's head to the side and Sam's shadow loomed over him.

_Fight back!_ The voice in his head screamed, sharp and full of panic. _Not again, don't let it happen again!_

Stan jerked his knee straight up, an underhanded move that caught Sam between the legs. As Sam fell to the side, Stan flipped himself over, straddling Sam, and landed blow after blow, the keys biting his palm as it slammed again into Sam's head. _More! More! He tried to hurt you, fight back!_

Driven by the voice, Stan hit again and again until the pain in his own fingers forced him to stop. Sam lay unmoving at his feet, the blisters on his face cracked open and bleeding, his jeans around his calves. Stan bent and quickly chained Sam's free hand, yanked the gag back in place, then straightened, panting and fighting for breath.

He checked his buttons.

Blood seeped through the cut in his glove, florescent red against the sterile white leather. _Blood! He was bleeding!_ His fingers stung and throbbed and Stan grabbed the roll of paper towels from the dresser, tearing off a long strand and clamping it to his fingers. _Blood has germs, blood is bad!_ He had to get help, had to get bandages and antiseptic. He'd used all the bleach on Sam.

_You're bleeding, you're dying- go, now!_

Stan grabbed his keys and ran from the tent.

o0O0o

Consciousness returned slowly and Sam wondered if he'd ever stop hurting.

He lay on the ground, still as possible, battling the pain for control of his body. All his nerve endings throbbed in time with his heartbeat, beating a steady rhythm against his skin. Even his bones reverberated with the tempo, and Sam wondered if it were possible to actually explode from pain.

Well, at least he wasn't already dead. Though it might be better that way.

He opened his eyes slowly, afraid of what he might find. But the tent was a sea of red, empty and quiet, and the only noises came from outside. People. Banging. Loud engines- trucks. Orders being shouted. An elephant?

Sam closed his eyes, going limp, the chains clinking softly. The gag in his mouth tasted sour and dry and his tongue stuck to it. His face hurt, his chest hurt, his arm and thumb hurt. He couldn't think past it- knew he had been trained to but had never before felt agony to this degree, felt his skin burning right off, wondering if his cheek bone was fractured or broken.

The tent seemed to shrink and shrink until it pressed tightly against him, the air too thick to breathe. Pain clamped jaws of steel around his body, squeezing, crushing, un-relentless as he panted and cried. He had been so close, _so close_, but had been bested by a fucking clown. How? He'd triumphed over vampires and wendigos and entities that weren't even corporeal, but he couldn't stab a clown with a knife? Why not?

_Because you're afraid._

Dean was right. Fear was irrational, it hindered you, it would get you killed.

Problem was, Sam was more scared of clowns than ever before.

Eyes closed, Sam just listened. Footsteps scuffed through the dirt outside, close. Then, from somewhere near his head, he heard his cell phone sing.

Sam opened his eyes. Blades of grass scratched his face, sunlight streamed in around the tent's opening. The song kept continued and Sam lifted his head. The trunk?

A shadow darkened the tent door. "Hold on, hold on. What's that noise?"

The fabric parted and sunlight sliced the darkness, rushing over Sam's body, warming his skin and easing some of the pain. He squinted, still up on one shoulder, and blinked until his eyes adjusted.

A man peered through the narrow part in the doorway, only a slice of his body visible. He wore a ball cap, a dark colored t-shirt, and jeans. His stomach bulged and facial hair furred his jaw. From his fingers, a lit cigarette dangled.

The tent flap fell shut and the figure disappeared.

_No!_ _Come back!_ Alone in the darkness, Sam heaved himself upright and tried to shout but the gag caught his words and melded them into an intelligible sound of desperation. Desperation mutated into frustration. He pulled at the chains and chomped down on the gag as pain flared through his wrists. His jeans, tangled around his legs, hobbled him and kept him from getting his feet underneath him. But despite it, encouraged by the man outside, Sam struggled and struggled until his muscles were heavy with exhaustion.

Finally he collapsed back against the pole, chest heaving, and screamed until his throat turned raw.

o0O0o

The Impala glided to a stop, rumbling beside the stop sign as Dean quickly checked for traffic. There was a steady flow to the right, filing one-by-one up the on-ramp of highway 90. Dean waited for the intersection to clear, staring blankly at a black dog in the back of a pickup.

If Sam were here, he'd make some stupid comment about how dangerous that was. But now, only the steady beats of 'Wayward Son' filled the air.

The opening notes of 'Smoke on the Water' interrupted and Dean flipped open the phone, holding it to his ear as he made a left-hand turn onto Sunset street. Again. "Hello?"

"Yes, is this Officer McCloud?"

Straightening, Dean snapped to attention, his gaze losing focus on the street before him. "Yeah, this is him. What do you got?"

"We just got a possible lead on your missing person. A call came in a few minutes ago, seems a truck driver stumbled across a young man, twenties, dark hair, same build. Found him tied up in a tent at Barney's Traveling Circus. We've got units heading over there right now- it's a possible hostage situation."

"Where?"

"Exit 20 off highway 90."

Dean slammed on the brakes and pulled hard on the steering wheel. The Impala spun, tires screaming, and car horns honked as the flow of traffic was disrupted. "I'm on my way," he said, then snapped the phone shut and tossed it onto the passenger seat. His hope soared- Sam had been found, alive. Dead people make poor hostages, after all.

Sam was alive, and Dean was going to get him back.

Fire burned through him, weighting his foot. The Impala responded well to the command, engine growling as the broken divider lines blurred into one long streak under the tires.

Setting his gaze on the horizon, Dean raced towards exit 20.


	8. Chapter 8

Three empty bottles of rubbing alcohol lay on the floorboards of the van, atop a plastic pharmacy bag and the wrapper from a roll of sterile bandages.

Stan eased the vehicle through the gates at the employee entrance, driving slowly as parts of the Ferris wheel were hauled away on tractor-drawn trailers. People marched about like ants, each with a job to do and intent on doing it. No one looked at him; to these people, a fat clown was nothing noteworthy. He belonged here. He was invisible. He was safe.

The van bounced softly over the grass as Stan wound his way through the rides and tents. He passed the lion cage slowly, easily finding Zamba and smiling at the big male. Tonight, the big cat would enjoy a fresh meal.

After parking the car, Stan opened the car door and slid to the ground. He cradled his injured hand against his chest and kicked the door shut behind him. His fingers still throbbed but not nearly as bad as before, and a brand new set of gloves covered the layers of bandages. It had taken all his courage to walk into the pharmacy, but the urge to clean and disinfect his hand was too strong to ignore. Even now, the thought of blood and infection and germs and hospitals made his skin crawl. Stan wiped his hands on his pants, checked his buttons, and started for his tent.

A hard shove sent his stumbling and Stan yelped.

"Get the hell out of my way!" Alligator Man growled. He bent and quickly snatched a small baggie from the ground, a small white rock inside. "Fucking cops are at the front gate- you tell them you saw me and I'll hunt you down and kill you, I swear to God. Got that, Tiny?"

Stan swallowed nervously, rubbing his palms on his thighs. "Yeah, yeah. Okay. Sure. Never saw you. Never."

"Good boy," Alligator Man replied, shoving the baggie in his pocket. "I'm glad you have one brain cell left in that head of yours."

Stan watched him hurry off, disappearing into a crowd of people. Gone without a trace. No trace. Stan had never seen him. He didn't want to die.

Cops. Cops were here, at the front. Suddenly Stan remembered his prisoner, drugged, beaten and tied to the pole in his tent.

He took off running, oversized shoes tearing at the grass and threatening to vault him to the ground. Brilliant yellow hair framed his vision and fell over his eyes, the red rubber ball on his nose forced him to breathe through his mouth. He searched the crowd for men in uniform, relieved to see no one- yet.

Bursting through into his tent, he ran straight for Sam. "Get up, get up!" he shouted, fumbling through the keys on his key ring for the one that would release the chains. "We have to go, now! Get up!"

The tent reeked of urine and Sam moved slowly, too slowly. The chains fell to the ground and Stan hauled Sam upright. Sam groaned, his eyes glassy and roaming. His hair, limp and dirty, parted in a messy zigzag down the top of his head. His clothes were more off than on but Stan had to trust his gloves would protect him from the germs.

"Let's go, now. Move!" Stan pulled Sam to his feet, supporting the taller man when he started to sag to the ground. Sam was heavy and his clothes were a hindrance, but Stan was desperate, and together, they stumbled outside.

The sun blinded him after being in the dark tent. Stan blinked, bringing the world into focus even as he dragged them towards the van. People walked about, their arms full and their concentrations occupied, but one by one, Stan found himself being stared at, judged, gawked at. Whispered scratched at his ear drums. As he walked, the voices grew louder, more concerned. Stan's palms itched- he wanted to rub them. He had to hurry. The boy groaned and struggled weakly, his long arms and legs awkward and octopus-like. Jeans around his ankles, shirt open and falling down his shoulders. His body tangled in a knot. Bloody.

Stan yanked open the back of the van and dropped his prisoner into the shadows, the sudden weight causing the vehicle to bounce once. He looked over his shoulder, saw the red and blue flashing lights. _They're coming!_ _Hurry!_ He slammed the door but it bounced off Sam's legs, swinging open again. Stan cursed, shoved the boy up into the van, then slammed the door again and ran for the driver's seat.

He turned the key and the engine came to life. Outside, people were starting to approach, pointing, talking, alert and concern spreading through the crowd like wildfire. _No! Go away!_ Stan threw the van in reverse and stomped on the gas pedal, tires skidding as they kicked up clumps of grass and dirt, spitting at the crowd. In the back, Sam's body rolled.

Terror stole his breath; Stan was suddenly the object of everyone's attention, thrust into the spotlight he tried to desperately to stay out of. Their gazes suffocated him and in a blind frenzy, Stan shifted into drive and floored it, heading straight for the gates. People leapt out of the way, dropping whatever they had been carrying, and screams echoed in his ears. _He's crazy, get out of the way! There he goes! Freak! Someone stop him! Fat Stan has really lost it this time!_

_Fat Stan! Stop crying, you little bastard! You're worthless!_

"Shut up!" Stan panted, his fists tight around the steering wheel. Strong Man and Alligator Man were at the gates, pushing them shut. Red and blue flashed in the rear view mirror and Stan put all his weight on the gas pedal.

Beyond the grass and people and closing gates, the highway stretched into the horizon. Stan locked his gaze on it. _Go!_

Strong Man was the first to jump out of the way. He rolled over the grass, landing safely to the side. But Stan drove the van like a tank, plowing through the steel with a loud crash that sent bits of debris flying up over the hood, pelting the windshield. Alligator Man hit the grille with a thud and disappeared in a spray of blood. Stan winced, ducking as a hunk of something metal flew up and struck the glass, exploding in an intricate, jagged spider web across the windshield. Steam rose up from under the hood but Stan never let off the gas.

Finally, the tires gripped the pavement and the van lurched forward, everything suddenly smooth and quiet. The speedometer needle rose and rose, climbing past 70, 80, into the 90s before the engine could work no harder. In the rear view mirror, the tight cluster of lights and people and tents grew smaller and smaller.

He'd done it.

His escape had created such a mess that the police were stuck- at least for the moment. He'd beat them. He was free.

Stan laughed, relaxing his grip on the steering wheel. One at a time, he wiped his hands on his pants and ran a hand over his buttons. They were all still there. Safe.

He checked one more time, just to be sure.

In the back, Sam made a noise, the words jumbled through the gag. The emotion, though, was perfectly conveyed.

"I told you before, you're mine. You have to do what I say. No one will help you, no one helps the bad boys. Scream all night, when it hurts. Zamba will be hungry."

The big cat was his only friend, and Stan had no intention of severing his relationship with the animal no matter what else happened. Zamba genuinely liked him, Stan knew, and he couldn't turn his back on his one true friend. There was no one else, after all.

Where would he go now? Who would want him? How would he find a new job?

The heavy blanked of panic pressed over him again and inside his gloves, his hands began to sweat and tremble. What had he done? Everyone would be looking for him now, and he had nowhere to hide. _Idiot! You're going to be caught, and you'll go to jail, and then you'll be in really big trouble!_

The leather tightened over his knuckles as Stan gripped the wheel. He glanced in the rear view mirror and saw only an old, black car behind him- no red and blue flashing lights, no cops. _No angry men with black masks and needles and blood._

_Not yet. _

Sam made another noise, and Stan drove faster.

o0O0o

Dean drove with both fists wrapped so tightly around the wheel, his fingernails dug into his palms. His right foot pushed the gas pedal to the floorboard, thigh tight, but it still wasn't fast enough.

Not when Sam's life was on the line.

The van in front of him sped down the road, blasting around a red minivan at just under 100 miles per hour. Dean cursed and duplicated the maneuver. The minivan honked.

Dean wanted so badly to run this motherfucker off the road. Bloodlust surged through his veins, seared his muscles, left him harder than iron. He _knew_ Sam was in that van, he just _knew_ it. That knowledge was the only thing keeping his temper in check; recklessness now could cost him Sam's life. Dean would not take that gamble, not now that he was so close.

The van's brake lights flared. Dean stomped on the Impala's brakes, bracing himself as the car dove. The van took a quick right, nearly coming up on two wheels and Dean cringed. Dust billowed up behind it and gravelspray _tinked_ off the Impala as Dean followed, his throat tight.

He made no effort to be inconspicuous. Let the bastard see him- intimidation was one of Dean's fortes.

The police were nowhere to be seen- probably stuck cleaning up the mess back at the circus grounds. Dean had arrived just in time to see the bald guy splatter like a bug on the van's grille, and the sheer brutality of the move doubled his desire to catch this bastard. The fact that he was flying solo made no difference. Dean was perfectly capable of doing what needed to be done by himself, always had been. In fact, it was probably a _good_ thing that there would be no witnesses.

They raced for a few more miles. Dean was considering his odds of safely shooting out the van's rear tire when an old, wooden bridge came into view. It stretched across a rushing river, its frame sturdy-looking but smoothed by time and weather. Some kind of vine crept up the base, slowly consuming the structure with ropes of green leaves.

The van skidded to a stop halfway across. Dust swirled slowly. The brake lights glowed.

Dean shifted the Impala into 'park' and grabbed his gun, waiting. His heart pounded, arteries throbbing, lungs too small.

The van's brake lights went off. The vehicle bounced a little, and Dean could see shadows moving inside. He opened the driver's door and knelt behind it on the ground, wrists braced on the car as he took aim.

He waited.

o0O0o

"Get up," Stan ordered. "Up, now. Time's up."

Pulled up by his hair, Sam caught sight of the knife and struggled as much as one could while bleeding, bound and gagged. His hip ached from when he'd been slammed against the side of the van. Everything throbbed, and he knew he wouldn't stand a chance against one pissed off, psycho clown.

But he was damn well gonna try.

"Move!" Stan shouted, jabbing with the knife, his breath hot and heavy with digested grease. "They're after me, everything's ruined. I can't go back, they know what I did, they know. I was bad. Bad boy. Nobody likes bad boys. This is all your fault- you told them!"

Sam glared, unable to deny the accusation for the gag between his teeth- but wishing like hell he _was_ the one responsible. Stan obviously had practice with kidnapping. Between the drug and the unconsciousness, Sam never had the opportunity to call for help.

"Let's go. Out. It's time."

The door opened and sunlight flooded the van. Sam winced, pain flaring behind his eyes, and let himself be guided out. His feet hit the dirt and through hot, stinging tears, Sam saw the Impala. Sunlight glinted off the roof, the hood, the gun in Dean's hands, and Sam nearly buckled under the wave of relief.

Dean was here.

A blade at his throat was the only thing that stood between them.

Before he could make a sound, Dean shouted, "Drop the knife and let him go. Now."

Stan's grip tightened. "No. He's mine now. He's been bad and he needs to be punished."

They were edging towards the side of the bridge, and the sound of water crashing over rocks filled his ears. Sam stumbled, his jeans around his ankles and underneath the denim, a length of chain. He'd been recumbent for what seemed like days, and his legs felt like jelly. Stan jerked him upright, still managing to keep the knife against his jugular, and moved them closer to the water.

Down, under the gaps in the bridge's floor, the river surged hungrily.

Dean stood up, arms locked, hands and aim steady. He followed at a distance of ten feet, his shoes crunching softly in the dirt. Sunlight set his hair ablaze. "Think about this," he said coldly, raising his voice above the roar of water. "You touch him and I'll kill you. You're not gonna get away."

Stan's breath burned Sam's ear. "Then you'll be bad too. Bad things happen to bad boys."

The words settled in the back of Sam's mind and exploded in barbs, taking root for later interpretation. He swallowed, panting around the rag in his mouth.

Dean didn't even flinch. "I'll take my chances. Now drop the knife."

Behind him, Stan radiated tension. Surely even someone as fucked up as the clown could see when the game was over, right? This was the end, Stan was out of options, had finally been caught. He was no longer in control. But with a surprisingly steady voice, Stan said, "No. He ruined everything, I'm punishing him."

Sam and Dean locked gazes.

_You okay?_

_Fine._

_Count of three?_

_Yes._

_Careful. _

_You too._

Dean nodded once, the movement so small that Sam may have imagined it. But he reacted instantly, driving his elbow back and up, hard, ramming the air from Stan's lungs. The knife fell away and Sam ducked, scrambling away.

A gunshot ripped through the air, then another, then another. Sam watched from where he was sagging against the guardrails, flinching against the bloodspray that erupted from Stan's chest with each jerk. Brilliant red blossoms spread across the rainbow of colors on his costume. He leaned back, tipping slowly like a felled tree, and then his should blades struck the railing. His head snapped back. The bright yellow wig fell to the water and was snatched away.

Limply, Stan slid to his ass, groaning upon impact. He blinked.

Dean kicked the knife into the water, then shoved the gun in his back pocket and moved to Sam. "Sit down," he said, pushing gently on Sam's shoulders. "You okay?"

When the gag was removed, Sam licked at his cheeks and teeth in a search for saliva. He tried to swallow but his throat was dry and raw. Instead, he nodded.

"Jesus, you're a mess. Hold still, I'm gonna get the chains off."

"Keys," Sam whispered, sliding his gaze from Dean to Stan, knowing Dean would understand.

"Don't move."

Sam watched as Dean dug through Stan's pockets, but when Dean found the keys and moved away, Sam continued to stare at the clown.

He wasn't dead yet, though blood pumped from the bullet holes and dripped into the river below. Without his hair, Stan looked less threatening, smaller, more vulnerable. Less clown-like. His face, though still caked with white paint, was creased with pain. He panted shallowly, in and out, just as Sam himself was doing.

Stan's head turned and their gazes locked. Sam no longer felt Dean's strong, careful hands. He watched as Stan raised his hands, narrowing his eyes at his bloody white gloves. He rubbed them on his stomach, and then felt each button on his costume, one by one. His lips moved, slicked with blood, and he whispered slowly, "Blood… my blood, bad. Germs. Dying… been bad boy."

Pain stabbed through his bicep and Sam winced. Above him, Dean murmured an apology. When he opened his eyes again, Stan was dead.

"Come on, let's get you up." Dean stood and reached down, waiting. "Here."

Sam grasped Dean's hand and pulled himself up, leaning against the railing for balance. He felt Dean pulling his jeans up, the material scratching over his legs, and he held them against his stomach with one hand. "Wait," he said, planting his feet when Dean pulled towards the Impala. He stared down at Stan's corpse. "Stop."

Dean let go but hovered closely. "What? He's dead. It's over."

"Gotta see." Sam approached, drawn by a force he couldn't- and didn't want to- explain. He stared down, the smell of blood rising up on the breeze created by the river. Goosebumps pricked his arms and chest. He swallowed, and then reached down and pulled the red ball from Stan's face, letting it drop to the worn wooden boards. It rolled over the edge and disappeared.

"Sam."

Ignoring his brother, Sam stared at the gloves. The white leather gloves that were never removed, that supposedly protected Stan and gave him confidence. The gloves that would probably haunt his dreams for days.

They came off slowly, peeling away like a second skin. Sam tossed them into the water and wiped his fingers on his jeans, then counted Stan's fingers. Ten. Long and normal, unblemished. Ten fingers, just like his own.

Sam didn't know if he was relieved or disappointed.

"Sam. We gotta get out of here."

"He's human," he said, still staring. "Just a person."

Dean touched Sam's elbow. "He's dead."

Sam nodded. The impact of the words felt wrong, not comforting like he thought they should. It meant something, but everything hurt and all he could do was follow Dean to the car.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note:** HUGE thanks to all my helpers: my muses, Amy, Carikube and Wolfpup, my beta Carikube, and thanks to every one of you who read this story. I am so proud that everyone liked it. This story started off simple but ballooned into a massive project and in the process, I learned a lot. Till next time, Emily

* * *

**Tag:**

"You sure you're up for this?"

Sam glanced at the steering wheel in a gesture of acknowledgment. "I told you, I'm fine."

Dean's hands tightened briefly. "Your burns still look disgusting. You still putting that stuff on?"

Sam rolled his eyes and continued staring out the window. "Weren't you complaining about the smell of it last night?"

"Hey, you're my little brother. You make all kinds of funky-ass smells."

Outside, a pair of little girls on matching purple bikes rode down the sidewalk, flowery helmets strapped to their heads. Water sprinklers flung crystalline sprays over yards of green grass. Golden retrievers plodded happily down the sidewalk, leading their owners on long, leisurely walks. This was the picture perfect neighborhood, something that should be in a magazine or some lame TV sitcom.

Who would've guessed that an evil spirit was haunting 1204 Hummingbird Lane?

"What about your thumb?" Dean questioned. "Can you hold a weapon?"

Finally, Sam turned away from the window. "Dean, I'm fine. Seriously. I'm not going to break. It's been two weeks." They held each other's gaze for a few seconds, then Dean turned back to the road.

"Okay, fine. I just don't want to be killed because your thumb slips back out of joint." He glanced back to Sam. "I would so haunt your ass."

The words bordered on selfishness, but Sam knew when Dean was only masking his insecurities. "I'm fine," he sighed. "Let's just do this."

A comfortable silence fell over them as the scenery slipped by. Sam went back to staring out the window. Stan assaulted his memory only occasionally now: flashes of rainbow and white gloves and bright yellow hair, or phantom pain in his bicep, chest or thumb. The bruises were almost gone, the chemical burns on his arm scabbed and healing. The physical evidence of his time with Stan was almost gone.

But the mental aftermath haunted him still.

A 2:30 am Google search last week returned a news story and obituary on Stanley Finch, a 42 year-old man who'd been an employee of Barney's Traveling Circus for the past 10 years. Other members of the circus described him as 'strange', 'withdrawn', and 'contemplative'. None of the accounts held much sympathy.

Further reading told of Stan's horrible childhood. Struck by a car at age 14, Stan spent the following year in a coma only to awake and return home to a depressed, alcoholic mother and a sexually abusive stepfather. Stan left home and virtually disappeared until five years later, when he debuted as a clown in a small, freak show of a circus in Georgia. Pictures and small editorial blurbs portrayed the same evil-tinted image Sam had burned in his memory, but knowing the backstory doused his anger and twisted it into sympathy. The upheaval of emotions had left Sam sick and bracing himself over the bathroom sink.

It wasn't about clowns anymore. Clowns were scary because of the paint, the mask, the entire disregard for personal space that was considered standard- _was__expected_- by every man, woman and child. No clown had every done anything _bad_ to Sam. You didn't have to be bitten by a snake to fear them.

But Stan had been a real person, with real problems, and that realization brought with it a whole new set of complications. Sam was an adult, he realized that it was only a coincidence that Stan portrayed a clown. But that realization did nothing for his outlook on human beings.

"I told you, Sam," Dean said as if reading his thoughts, "people are crazy. Sometimes, you just can't figure them out."

The Impala rumbled to a gentle curbside stop. House number 1204 stood to the right.

Sam tensed, the words strong and so un-Dean-like that he had to replay them. "You want to have a heart to heart now?"

"I need to know you're with me. I know you, you like to brood and when you brood, you're distracted." Dean turned off the car and rubbed his neck. "Stan was a crazy son of a bitch. What happened to him is sad, yeah- but I'm not sorry he's dead. Who knows how many people he killed, or how many more he would have."

Sam nodded, tracing the Impala's stitching with his thumbnail. Dean was right- regardless of whose fault it was, Stan was undeniably psycho. Maybe even evil. And isn't that what they did, hunt down and eradicate evil beings? Was there a difference between the evil in a human and the evil in a spirit?

Sam didn't know if anyone was qualified to answer that.

At that moment, the signature song of ice cream trucks nationwide floated through the air. A large white van rolled slowly down the street beside them, its side decorated with the image of two small children accepting towering ice cream cones from a laughing clown.

Sam stared. He felt Dean's eyes on him, waiting, judging.

The truck continued to the end of the street and turned the corner, disappearing. The music faded.

Sam met Dean's gaze levelly, coolly, giving no tell of the hot blood surging through his chest or the discomfort in his belly.

One elbow propped on the doorframe, Dean asked, "You good?"

His heart knew what to believe, even if his brain wasn't sure yet. That would come later, with time and experience. For now, Sam could only believe in himself and his brother, and that they had only done what had to be done.

"Yeah," he said at last, wincing as the sun glared off the Impala's hood. "I'm good."

END


End file.
